


Dear Sandwich Thief

by im2old4thisotp



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, Based on a Tumblr Post, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Jackson Whittemore is a douchebag, M/M, Office Pranks, Stiles is an Engineer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 16:23:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18265010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im2old4thisotp/pseuds/im2old4thisotp
Summary: The first time Stiles took Jackson's sandwich, it was an accident.All the times after that? Not so much.





	Dear Sandwich Thief

**Author's Note:**

> I had a bit of a crummy week, and I needed a laugh. This was a 600 word outline in my drafts that "just needs a little bit of filler and it'll be done!" And here I am, *checks word count*, completely unsurprised at this turn of events.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this funny bit of nonsense that I thought of based on a post on Tumblr that immediately made me think of Stiles and Jackson. (see end notes for link)
> 
> Any mistakes are my own, and since I wrote this in just over a day, please be kind.
> 
> (Yes, I'm still working on the bathtub fic, I promise)

 

 

Incredibly, Stiles and Scott both managed to land summer internships at Hale Industries: Stiles in the engineering department, Scott in logistics. It wasn’t ideal—screwing around Beacon Hills all summer, drinking too much and sleeping in too late was much preferable, of course—but it was hard enough finding a post-grad job these days, especially without any related work experience whatsoever. Going for an engineering Master’s degree wasn’t helping, since he spent the majority of time studying _and_ it was an extra three years of school. But he was almost done. One semester left. Hale Industries was vast and looked really good on a resume, so he’d count it as a win, especially if he could get hired on after his internship.

The key was impressing his intern supervisor (and nephew of the company CEO), Derek Hale. Derek was just a few years older than Stiles, was also an engineer, and the cherry on the proverbial sundae was that he was hot as fuck. It also didn’t hurt Stiles learned that Derek was a sarcastic asshole. Hot sarcastic assholes were basically Stiles’ Kryptonite. So much so that Stiles spent the entirety of the internship interview trying to stay focused and not daydream about an office romance that ended in a wedding on Lake Como. He mostly succeeded.

Mostly.

The internship was awesome. It was paid, which was a massive win for his school debt, it would get him great experience for his resume, his supervisor was actually interested in helping his career get off to a good start, and his coworkers seemed pretty chill. Everyone kind of kept to themselves. But overall, it was a pretty great formula for success.

Except for one small—well _huge_ in Stiles’ opinion—part.

Jackson Whittemore.

He and Stiles hadn’t gotten along at all in high school—Jackson had made his life a living hell, actually. But now, it was Jackson’s second summer interning at Hale in the engineering division (same as Stiles), and he was a nightmare because he thought having one summer of seniority over everyone else made him the King of the Fucking Universe. He openly sneered at Stiles across the office, and when they were in all-employee meetings, whispered under his breath with his friend Danny (actually a decent guy—Stiles didn’t get how he and Jackson were friends) anytime Stiles tried to offer a solution to the whole group. He butted into projects and took over things he had no business touching. He was a nightmare.

On a superficial level, he was also just obnoxious. He talked loudly, bragging to everyone about his Dad’s business that he was set to inherit, and the stupid Porsche that he had washed in the office parking lot by a mobile detailing company twice a week.

Seriously. _Twice a week._

After the first week of the internship, Stiles was in love with the work, even more in love with his boss Derek, but definitely wanted to back his Jeep up into Jackson’s precious Porsche. After the first month, Stiles was plotting with Scott about how to discard his body without leaving evidence.

Well, _Stiles_ was planning. Scott didn’t seem to mind. But Scott was a softie who loved everyone, so his judgment wasn’t to be trusted.

The worst thing, the _absolute worst thing_ was how Jackson would talk about his lunchtime sandwiches.

Stupid, right? It seems like it would be a non-issue. Who could talk about sandwiches so much that it would cause Stiles to immediately wish he could pitch himself off of the second-story roof of the company?

Jackson Whittemore, apparently. He talked about the special bakery that he ordered the bread from that used “organic, gluten-free flour imported from France.” He talked about how the meat had to have no sulfates or sulfites and from cage-free, grain-free, free-range animals. He talked about how the arugula was from the garden that “his staff” maintained in the rear of his property, and how grocery store lettuce was obviously substandard and how could anyone possibly stomach bread that wasn’t completely organic? (That last line was said looking directly at the sandwich in Stiles’ hands, which, yes, was peanut butter and jelly on white again, but he had stayed up late—or early—with Scott playing Fortnite, and he ran out of time that morning, alright?) And on. And on. And on.

The first day it happened, it actually wasn’t on purpose. Brown bags in the fridge all looked the same when you were busy debating with Scott on whether or not deviled eggs need paprika sprinkled on the top or not (it was just after Fourth of July—it was _relevant_ , okay? Paprika was the devil’s ashes, and you couldn’t tell Stiles otherwise.). He was arguing, he grabbed a bag, he plopped down at their usual corner table without even looking. Totally innocent.

Stiles took his first big bite while Scott was in the middle of _his_ side of the argument (which was, at best, paper thin and easily refutable), and immediately got completely confused.

“This isn’t my sandwich.”

He grabbed the bag and turned it over, where in large black letters (because obviously he uses a huge fucking Sharpie) was written, _Jackson Whittemore. HANDS OFF._

Stiles looked up and swallowed thickly around the (incredibly delicious and savory) bite, and Scott’s eyes were like saucers.

“Dude. Is that _Jackson’s_ sandwich? Oooh, your ass is gonna get handed to you. You’ve know how he talks about that food.”

Stiles looked down at the sandwich in his hands and considered stuffing it back into the bag and throwing it in the fridge. But there was no way to disguise the enormous bite he had taken out of it (He was _hungry,_ alright? And face-stuffing is a Stilinski trait). It was an honest mistake.

Stiles shrugged. “He’ll be fine. He can go to the food truck outside. I heard Isaac’s making his special lasagna.” With the words _special lasagna,_ Stiles couldn’t help his air quotes and his audible disgust.

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” Scott asked, a bite of his own heart-shaped turkey on rye sandwich (seriously, he and Allison were _nauseating_ ) hanging from his lips.

“Ugh, because Isaac just bugs me. He acts like just because he owns a food truck, he's freaking Antoni Porowski. And what the fuck is up with the scarves? That _can’t_ be sanitary.”

“Whatever you say, dude. That lasagna’s amazing.” Scott shrugged. “I think you’re gonna be Jackson’s lunchmeat sandwich when he finds out, is all I’m sayin’.”

Stiles considered this for a couple of moments. It was just a sandwich. It wouldn’t possibly be that bad.

It was definitely that bad.

When Jackson entered the break room less than five minutes later and failed to find his lunch bag in the fridge, he went ballistic, yelling at nobody in particular and also everybody. It was actually impressive that he didn’t burst a blood vessel in his neck, because it was pulsing pretty violently.

During Jackson’s rant, Stiles subtly slid the offending sandwich under the table, gathering the brown bag into his lap quietly, wiping his mouth like he was just finishing his lunch instead of just starting it. Jackson stormed out of the break room and was back a minute later, angrily slamming a piece of paper onto the fridge and taping it down.

He turned and stormed out, yelling at Danny to join him at the food truck. After he left, all eyes went to the note on the fridge, but Stiles was definitely the first one to get there to read it.

_To the person who stole Jackson Whittemore’s sandwich. This is ridiculous. We are not children. Please read the large bold print on the bag before consuming food that doesn’t belong to you!! If this happens again, I will be forced to take more serious action._

Okay, first? Stiles was angry at the Comic Sans font. Who prints a memo in Comic Sans? It’s the worst font in the history of the entire universe. Stiles was angry based on principle alone.

And second. “ _More serious action?_ What’s he gonna do? Call the sandwich police?” He said this part out loud, and heard a few snickers behind him, from others who had come to inspect the note. Kira, Corey, and Liam, all from the logistics department. Kira, in particular, was standing with a smirk.

“That was pretty impressive,” she said. “I thought the vein in his forehead was going to leap out and start yelling at everyone, too.”

Stiles laughed. “It was probably an accident. But I think the result was incredible.” Kira laughed as Stiles turned to the rest of the scattered few in the break room. “Congratulations on surviving Jacksonpocalypse, everyone.”

There were a few laughs, and everyone settled back into their lunches—including Stiles, who ate the rest of Jackson’s sandwich in absolute bliss. (Goddamnit, the bread really _was_ delectable.)

That really was going to be the end of it.  

Really.

_But._

The next day, while in the big, all-company meeting with Derek and CEO of Hale Industries himself, Peter Hale, Jackson completely cut Stiles off from speaking and took credit for one of Stiles’ design suggestions.

Well. That did it.

Stiles was _done_.

Right after the meeting, he strode down to the lunchroom early, grabbed Jackson’s lunch bag, and tossed it into his bottom drawer (he'd take it to his dad after work, he'd enjoy it). A few minutes later, he stopped by the printer before heading down to the lunchroom again, taping a note to the front of the fridge, atop Jackson’s angry note from the day before that no one had taken down.

He looked at his handiwork and nodded. That’ll do.

He was in his cubicle as Jackson strode past, having stayed after to talk to Mr. Hale about his “excellent idea.” Jackson pulled up and leaned against the side of the opening, oozing smarmy arrogance.

“Peter was really impressed by my idea, Stiles. Too bad you don’t have what it takes to climb the ladder here.”

“If I have to climb the ladder you’re climbing, Whittemore,” Stiles spat out. “I’d rather not.” Jackson snorted and fairly bounced over to his cubicle across the office. Stiles bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. Jackson _so_ had it coming.

When it was lunchtime, he waited for Scott like he always did, and they went down to the lunchroom together. After Stiles handed Scott his brown bag and closed the fridge, Scott pointed to the door.

“Hey. Someone put another note on the fridge.”

A couple of people got up and crowded around, reading the note that was taped blatantly atop Jackson’s note from yesterday.

It was a few moments of silence before someone—maybe Garrett from Accounting?—said, “Oh my _god_.” and someone else snorted. Stiles heard “Amazing!” from somewhere to his left. Then Erica from Marketing said, “You know, Boyd? I think I want to eat here in the breakroom today.”

And so it was, when Jackson arrived, Danny close behind, the silence was palpable.

Stiles and Scott were in their normal corner, Stiles’ lunch spread before him as usual, but his heart beat was out of control.

The refrigerator door opened and the sound of Jackson’s swear reverberated off the interior walls of the fridge. The door slammed shut, and Stiles tried not to wince. Jackson then noticed the note. “What the hell?”

Danny came up behind him and read the words out loud.

“Dear Jackson. I have your precious sandwich. It’s safe. For now. Put 10 dollars on the plate in the fridge or you’ll never see it undigested again.”

Jackson pushed past Danny, who was covering his mouth with his hand in barely-contained laughter.

It was a tense moment before Jackson returned, another paper in hand, taping it atop the growing stack, then storming out again. Danny sighed, grabbed his lunch from the fridge before saluting the watching crowd with a smirk and following behind.

The sound of chairs scraping against the linoleum floor was deafening as everyone jumped up to read the new note on the fridge.

Stiles was one of the last to arrive, so he was way in the back and couldn’t read it. “Read it out loud, will ya? Can’t see from back here!”

Corey was pressed up close, and his voice read the note. “Dear Sandwich Thief. Grow up and just return my freaking sandwiches! This is very unprofessional! If I ever find out who’s doing this I won’t hesitate to CONTACT HR!!”

Lunch after that was full of chatter, and Stiles loved it. Who took the sandwich? Would Jackson pay up? How long will this go on?

“Did you do that?” Scott asked in a low voice.

“Does that sound like something I’d do?” Stiles asked him.

Scott leveled him with a look. “Absolutely.”

Stiles only smiled.

The next day, Stiles almost got caught. When he headed down to the lunchroom, Jackson was in the hallway and Stiles had to duck into the restroom to avoid getting caught. He waited until he heard the voices go by before he went in, stuck the next note on top of the pile, and took Jackson’s lunch bag (tucked way in the back today).

When Stiles and Scott arrived, the laughter and the chatter were in full force already. Every seat in the breakroom was taken. Word had gotten around. When they came in, Erica called out, “Did you guys see the note?”

Scott sighed. “There’s another one?”

“It’s hilarious!” Erica says with glee. “Jackson’s gonna shit a brick.”

Scott went to the fridge, and Stiles pretended to read the note on the fridge for the first time. “Dear Jackson. I noticed there was no 10 dollars on the plate, so I have taken my payment in the form of today’s lunch. Perhaps tomorrow there will be a bill and you’ll have a lunch.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jackson’s voice came from right over Stiles’ shoulder. “Get out of the way, testicle left and right.” Jackson pushed Scott and Stiles over, shoved the fridge door open before slamming it shut again.

“They sound pretty serious, Jackson,” Stiles said to him. “Maybe you should pay the man. Or woman! I don’t wanna be sexist here.”

“Bilinski, if this is you, I swear to god.”

“You think I have time for this? I’m busy trying to _climb the ladder_.” Stiles stepped around Jackson, grabbed his lunch out of the fridge, and sat in his usual seat.

Jackson stood seething for a moment before leaving the breakroom. He returned a moment later and stood in front of the fridge. Everyone in the break room seemed to be holding their breath, watching. Would he pay today?

Nope.

Another note, taped on top of the old one. Jackson turned to look at Stiles, who had his mouth full of peanut butter and jelly and could only wave with his mouth full. Jackson narrowed his eyes and smirked.

A couple of people went to the fridge, read the note and shook their heads before returning to their seats.

“Aren’t you gonna go read what it said?” Scott asked.

Stiles shrugged. “I’m really enjoying this peanut butter sandwich.”

Scott stayed still for a moment before going up to the fridge. His eyes widened noticeably.

“What’s it say?” Stiles asked innocently.

“Dear Sandwich Thief,” Scott read aloud. “This is Lydia from HR.”

Now it was Stiles’ eyes that widened. “No fucking way.” He jerked out of his seat and stumbled over to the fridge to read.

“Dear Sandwich Thief. This is Lydia from HR. Please return the sandwich to Mr. Whittemore and we won’t investigate the matter any further.”

“So, I guess that’s it, then?” Scott asked.

“Hmm...I guess so.”

Stiles was a bit disappointed. But it was okay. Honestly, it was only going to get more and more difficult to try to sneak around to the break room. And then to sneak back to put the note? It was just...too much for a dumb joke. So, if Jackson wanted to tell the teacher on the situation, that was fine. Stiles could be done with the prank (though his dad would really miss the sandwiches that Stiles had been bringing him before his evening shift).

The upside was that Lydia had no idea it was him, so the threat of anything happening job-wise seemed insanely low. He was pretty proud of himself for keeping it a secret from everyone in the office.

High five Stiles.

The next day, Jackson walked into the breakroom, looked at the absence of a return note on the fridge, and puffed out his chest. He opened the refrigerator, his lunch where he had left it in the morning, and let out an audible, obnoxious, _Ha!_

“That’s right!” he hooted. “Take that, you unprofessional _child_.” He clutched his lunch bag to his chest, and left the room.

There was an audible exhale from a few people, and Stiles heard Erica above the others, “Well, lunches will go back to being boring, huh?”

But the next day, Stiles came back from his morning bathroom run to find a white plastic grocery bag on his desk. He looked inside, and his eyes widened when he saw Jackson’s lunch bag.

_The fuck?_

There was a folded Post-It note on top, and Stiles looked around before opening it.

_That fucker told me never to have kids because ‘my brand of ugly is hereditary.’ I haven’t had this much fun at work in a long time. Figured you could use some help. -E.R._

Stiles wanted to burst into laughter, but he managed to hold it in. He stood up, looked over the tops of the cubicles to see Erica Reyes standing across the room, her eyes locked on his. She grinned and nodded, then sank back out of view. Stiles sat back down and considered taking the sandwich back to the break room. Then he read the note again. Erica didn’t deserve that. So instead, of being honorable, he printed off a quick note, waited for Jackson to be occupied, and snuck into the break room where the note from Lydia was still tacked onto the fridge.

This one’s for Erica, you fucker.

Stiles said a small prayer and taped his new note on top, sneaking out and back into his cubicle without missing a beat.

At lunch, Stiles was four bites into his sandwich when he heard Jackson enter the room, boasting to Danny, his swagger on full display.

“The tomatoes are just ripening. Rosa our chef was telling me this morning. They will enhance the flavor of the fresh turkey exquisitely.” He finished his (obnoxious) monologue and opened the fridge, only to stop short.

No one was expecting anything, so when Jackson let out a primeval roar, the entire breakroom startled in unison.

“ _Not AGAIN!”_ Jackson slammed the refrigerator door shut and peered at the front of the door, reading the note. “Dear Jackson. I got hungry, but your sandwiches are too fancy for me. Buy me a pizza.”

Jackson tore open one of the breakroom cabinet drawers and pulled out an impressively huge Sharpie (aah, so that’s where he got it). He scrawled the word _NO_ in large enough letters that Stiles could read it all the way across the room, and then threw the Sharpie back into the drawer and stormed out.

Scott leaned over the table, a smile on his face. “Did you take his lunch again?”

“Scotty, I can tell you with absolute certainty that I did not.”

“ _Really?_ The look on his face was amazing!”

The next day, just after another all-company meeting, Jackson asked to speak to Mr. Hale after the meeting. Stiles was never happier that his cubicle was close to the conference room than he was now, because he could hear Jackson ask Peter Hale, CEO, if he could use his personal office refrigerator to store his lunch. He fairly cackled when Peter gave him a _no_ with a withering look and Jackson left with his tail between his legs.

The thing was, Stiles _didn’t_ take Jackson’s lunch again. And it didn’t happen every day. That just seemed excessively mean. It just...ended up on his desk every once in a while. And every time it did, it had a different note from a different person.

_Jackson told Peter that my math skills were elementary compared to his. I have a Master’s in number theory._

_He told Erica I have herpes. (I don’t.)_

_Jackson is a pain in my ass._ (Stiles could have _sworn_ that one was in Derek Hale’s handwriting, but he couldn’t be sure. He kind of hoped it wasn’t, or Stiles wasn’t going to be able to stop himself from proposing marriage.)

The routine was always the same: someone grabbed the lunch out of the fridge, Jackson stomped into the lunchroom, spotted the note, snorted or huffed or squelched a scream, and then stomped out, returning with a paper to tape to the top of the burgeoning pile, before going out to Isaac’s food truck. It was a running saga in the office, and also a testament to how overwhelmingly hated Jackson was, that no one would spill the beans about what was happening. Stiles just came up with what to put on the fridge.

The upside of the entire sandwich saga is what it did for office morale. People were sitting together at lunch again, hanging out in the hallway after staff meetings. There was laughter between departments. Stiles got invited to a few after-work happy hours. He really started to feel like he wanted to stay on at Hale Industries after graduation. It really was a great place to work.

He even got a thank you note on his desk one day from Isaac, thanking him for the extra (cranky) business. How _Isaac_ found out what was going on, he’d never know. 

After the emphatic black Sharpied _NO_ note, Stiles tacked up a new paper, “By the way, I’m not even eating your sandwiches. I really just want pizza at this point. But since you’re not paying up, I guess I’ll start reselling your sandwiches on the black market. These artisan cheeses will really fetch a premium price.”

Jackson followed that up with a note simply stating, _You’re the worst!_ with a tongue emoji.

(He also stomped out of the breakroom that day whining, “My father will hear about this!” to which Kira retorted, “Okay, _Draco Malfoy._ ” after he left.)

In Stiles’ opinion, his most impressive note came after he got a Post-It attached to the sandwich that said, _Jackson erased all of the work I did on the quarterly spreadsheet. It took me days and it’s gone._

“Jesus, this guy really is the fucking _worst.”_

This time, he included a picture of the mutilated sandwich under his words (his dad was a little confused by the state of the sandwich, but accepted it gratefully anyway).

 _I am so very far from being the worst. Mankind’s flaws can’t be judged on such a simple spectrum as that. Open your eyes. You lash out at such pettiness, but ignore the hideous nature of the world at large. There is a hunger, my dear sir, a hunger that is spreading from the deepest, darkest pits of this hellish corporate chasm. This sandwich is the birth cry of a new era, and when the revolution finally comes, pitiful vagrants like yourself will be the first to be devoured. The deed is done. Weep for the world you once knew. For it is but crumbs upon the sill of despair. Soon to be swept away by the righteous gusts of Change_.

Erica was in tears with laughter at the end of reading that one out loud to the break room.

“That’s _it!_ ” Jackson said after reading the note, stomping out yet again.

When he came back into the break room, he slapped the note on the refrigerator and stepped back, satisfied. “See how you like them apples _now_ , thief!”

On the fridge was a note that made Stiles’ heart pound.

_Hi, Lydia from HR again. I have checked the office’s printer queue and know who is leaving the notes. Could you please come to see me at your earliest convenience._

He looked over when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Erica. “We won’t let them fire you.”

He was surprised that it had taken this long, to be honest. Office gossip tended to spread fast. He was hoping it wouldn’t mess with his post-grad job chances, but after all the notes, and seeing how Jackson basically terrorized the entire office, he wasn’t hopeful. Maybe Derek would write him a positive recommendation letter, at least.

Behind the desk sat the impressive Lydia Martin, the HR manager. She was very small in stature, but nothing about her demeanor indicated it. She was no-nonsense and smart, and she didn’t take shit from anyone. Stiles simultaneously liked her and was terrified by her. Behind her, standing with his arms crossed in the corner, was Derek Hale. Stiles’ mouth went dry.

“Sit down, Mr. Stilinski,” Lydia said solemnly.

Stiles sat in one of the empty seats across from her desk, his knee immediately bouncing up and down out of nerves. There was silence for a few moments before he blurted out, “Please don’t fire me.”

Derek cocked an eyebrow, and Lydia looked over at him and nodded. When she turned back to Stiles, she opened her mouth to speak and her door burst open.

“Yes!” Jackson crowed. “I _knew_ it was you! You’d better be firing him.”

Lydia’s back went ramrod straight. “Mr. Whittemore, _I am in a meeting_.”

Jackson continued into the office, his voice rising. “I have confronted everyone in the office, and no one will admit to it. But the only one _stupid_ enough to pull this off is Stilinski, so I knew it must be him.”

“Calm down, Mr. Whittemore,” Lydia said calmly.

He pointed at Stiles. “But you know it was him! He needs to be fired!”

Lydia bristled at that. “Mr. Hale and I will be the one to decide on any disciplinary courses of action, should Mr. Stilinski be involved. We can handle this matter without any assistance from you, thank you very much.  An email will be sent out to the entire office, detailing the further actions that will be taken if the thief doesn’t comply. In the meantime, Mr. Whittemore, might I suggest bringing in a cooler to store your lunch?”

Jackson stomped, literally stomped his foot like a child, and whined, “A cooler? You’re kidding me, right? Don’t you know who my father is? I could have _you_ fired.”

“Your _father_ understands my value to this company. Whereas this company without _you_ would be considerably more effective.”

Jackson’s mouth dropped open.

Lydia continued. “Mr. Whittemore, your attitude and behavior in this office are the impetus of some of the more retaliatory actions against you. Actions which, if continued, will have negative influence on any of your future employment endeavors. I’m sure the thief, whoever it is, will think twice before stealing your lunch again. I consider this matter closed.”

Jackson stared at Lydia, open-mouthed, and then turned to Derek.

“That’s it? Two years I’ve been here, and you’re not going to do anything?”

Derek stepped slightly forward. “The only reason you still have this internship is because of Peter. We don’t even have two-year internships, but it’s taken you that long to learn what others learn in just a couple of months.” At that he looked at Stiles for just a moment. Then he continued, “Peter felt he owed it to you for some reason. I wouldn’t have had you back after last summer. Your work is substandard, you take credit for the work of others, and I’ve noticed the way you have treated my team here in the office, as well as those in other groups. I feel comfortable letting you know you won’t be offered a job here at the end of the summer.”

“This company will fall apart without me,” Jackson hissed.

“How the company fares is none of your concern,” Lydia stated. “You may continue the remainder of your internship under the terms we have discussed here, or you may collect your things and leave now. It is up to you.”

Jackson spluttered and started and eventually turned to Stiles. He looked like he had a million things he wanted to say, the vein in his head was positively _throbbing_ , but he simply pursed his lips and stormed out of Lydia’s office, slamming the door behind him.

Stiles watched him go, his eyes wide, before turning back to where Lydia still sat, perfectly calm, Derek standing behind her.

“I’m sure we can count on your discretion with the things you have just seen and heard, Mr. Stilinski,” Lydia cocked an eyebrow at him.

Stiles nodded vigorously, still unsure of whether or not he himself was about to be fired. He was still mostly in shock with everything that had just happened.

“Now. We have a matter to discuss.”

Here it was. The moment he got fired. It was fine. He’d had a good run here, and hopefully Derek would write him a good recommendation letter even with everything else that had happened. He felt like he had contributed some good things to the department.  He hoped it would be enough.

“We understand this is your final internship before your graduation this winter.”

Stiles nodded. To think he’d gotten so close to finishing only to have to start all over with the job hunt. He wondered if the prank on Jackson was worth it—but only for a split second. Hell yes it was worth it, since no one should make Erica Reyes, or anyone else here, feel like shit. They were all amazing.

Lydia continued, “Hale Industries would like to offer you a full-time position after you complete your Master’s work this semester.”

Stiles blinked a few times in confusion, before looking up at Derek, who was beaming. _Damn, he looks good when he smiles. Those eye crinkles. Those are my Kryptonite._

“Say what?”

“Your work here has been notable. The engineering team would benefit greatly from your presence. We can discuss more about salary and benefits at the end of your term here, but we hope you will consider joining us.”

Stiles sputtered, “ _Hell yes!_ Er—yes...thank you. Yes. That sounds amazing, thank you. You’re really not firing me?”

“Mr. Hale has indicated that you are not solely responsible for Mr. Whittemore’s...predicaments, and if we fired you, then we would need to fire a considerable number of our other employed staff, as well.”

Stiles eyed Derek carefully.

Derek added, “If you can attempt to keep the office pranks with your friends to a minimum from now on…”

“Absolutely,” Stiles nodded. “No problem, for sure.”

“Excellent,” Lydia said. “Now that this matter is settled, there is one other issue, which is why Mr. Hale is present at this meeting,” Lydia said. “It is against company policy to have personal fraternization between employees and interns. However, since your intent is to become an employee here, I wanted to let you know that we are willing to make an exception if you can keep your relationship until your official hiring date discrete.”

Stiles was confused. “Relationship? Umm…I’m not in a relationship.”

At that, Derek audibly exhaled. “You’re not dating Scott?”

Stiles wanted to laugh. “Scotty? Nah, dude, he’s been my best friend since the sandbox in Kindergarten. He’s more like my brother. Why?”

There was silence for a moment, wherein Derek and Lydia looked at each other, and Stiles looked back and forth between the two of them. He was totally confused.

Lydia cleared her throat. “Mr. Hale, perhaps you can find a….better place to have this discussion?”

Derek nodded, his ears slightly pink. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your time, Lydia.”

Lydia nodded, and stood up. “Goodbye, Mr. Stilinski. And welcome to Hale Industries.”

Stiles stood up and smiled, wiping his sweaty hand on his pants before extending it to Lydia. Lydia looked at his hand with mild disgust, and Stiles chuckled. “Yeah, we’ll save that for another time, I guess. Thank you. Thanks a lot.”

Stiles followed Derek out of the office, and exhaled once they rounded the corner. “Whoa. I really thought I was a goner there.”

Derek turned abruptly, and Stiles nearly ran into him. “Will you go out on a date with me?”

Once again, Stiles was stunned into silence. He stared into Derek’s gorgeous eyes and tried to process what was happening.  Finally, he managed a barely-there squeak. “Me?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Yes, _you._ ”

“ _You._ Wanna go on a date with _me_.”

“I’ve wanted to go on a date with you for weeks, but I thought you were with Scott.”

“Nope.”

“No, you won’t go on a date with me?”

“ _No!_ Yes!” In frustration, Stiles ran his hands through his hair. “ _No_ , I’m not with Scott. _Yes_ , I would love to go on a date with you. I just...I can’t believe you’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

“Because well...look at you!”

“Have you seen yourself lately?”

“Okay, my mind is going to have to process the fact that you apparently think I’m good-looking.” Suddenly, something in Stiles’ mind clicked. “Wait. Lydia said that you told her there were more people involved with the lunch thing.”

Derek nodded.

“It _was_ you who stole his lunch one time!”

Derek raised his eyebrow. “I believe you assured Lydia you’d have discretion.”

Stiles clapped one of his hands over his mouth, but Derek could probably still tell he was grinning like a cheshire cat.  

Derek sighed. “My uncle Peter might have a blind spot when it comes to Jackson, but I don’t. He drives me crazy. Almost as much as you.”

Stiles dropped his hand. This was officially the craziest day he had ever had.

Just then, Scott rounded the corner in a rush. “Stiles! You’re not gonna believe it. Jackson is _leaving!_ ”

“What?”

“Yeah, he has a paper box and he’s throwing all his stuff in it. He’s leaving, dude? Can you believe it?”

Scott threw his arm around Stiles, steering him back to the main office. Just before he did, Stiles felt Derek's warm, soft hand trail down his arm and squeeze his hand quickly before letting go. Stiles felt the tingle as he walked down the hallway away from Derek.

“Can you believe that a sandwich led to this?” Scott asked incredulously.

Stiles pulled his still-tingling hand up to his mouth and smiled, his heart skipping a beat.

“Scotty, you have no idea.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you in advance for leaving comments. They are my LIFE!
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/im2old4thisotp).
> 
> Here is the original [Tumblr post](http://tyleroakley.com/post/171632044104/rubiks-calamity-capricorn-onthe-cob) that inspired this fic.


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